A Song Interrupted
by almost-out-of-minutes
Summary: "Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats." A moment in the childhood of the Winchester boys.


**"Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats." -Voltaire **

_I'll be back in a week. Lock the doors and windows. Don't open them for anyone. Look after your brother. _

It's that last one John hammered home the most. He laid a hand on Dean's shoulder, the weight oppressive rather than comforting, and bent to look him straight in the eye.

_That's your job now, son. Take care of Sammy. Don't let him out of your sight._

Dean nodded, the words still not coming easily to him. If he opened his mouth, he might start screaming or crying or begging his daddy to stay with them. All of which his father had heard, and all of which he had had dismissed.

John moved his hand up to cup Dean's cheek, his eyes softening. For a moment, it was like he had his Daddy back, the one who used to smile all the time and wrestle with him and kiss Mommy on the cheek while she cooked.

Then John straightened up, clapping his son on the shoulder like an old army buddy and not his five-year-old son. _I'll be back in a week_.

It's two weeks after John leaves. He still hasn't returned except for a quick errand run, dropping off plastic bags filled with food and diapers and disappearing into the snow as quickly as he'd arrived.

It's two weeks after John leaves, and Dean is turning six.

This newest motel room has long since lost its novelty, and Dean can only make so many funny faces before he and Sam are both bored to tears. Literally.

Sam is howling, chubby legs squirming as he lays on the aqua bedspread, and Dean is close to joining him. Vision blurring, he slams the bathroom door in an effort to muffle the baby's cries. He sinks down into a crouch, his back against the wall and his knees drawn up to his chest.

He shatters.

Tears slip down his ruddy cheeks, his breath hitching over and over again, stuttering hiccups that leave him shaking like a leaf.

He misses his house. He misses his bed. He misses his toys and his preschool and his stuffed animals. Most of all, he misses his mommy. Daddy said that she's gone, that she was taken from them, and that she's never coming back.

Dean wishes she would come back. He wishes Daddy would come back, too. He wishes Daddy would come back and say happy birthday and maybe get him a cake, although the cake isn't what he wants most, no, what he wants most is his _Daddy_ and his _Mommy _and his _home_ and-

Sammy's cries increase in volume, and Dean covers his ears with his hands. Why do babies cry for no reason?

He feels confined and exposed all at once. His skin itches with the urge to run away, run until his legs can't take him any father, run until he finds his mommy again.

But he can't leave Sammy, and Daddy would be so mad. So he'll stay, and he'll do what Daddy asks, and he'll make sure nothing bad ever happens to Sammy.

It takes a while, but eventually his tears dry and his hiccups disappear. He lifts his head.

An empty toilet paper roll is sitting on the bathroom counter, and to Dean it looks like a spyglass. The kind that pirates use to look out at the ocean from their crow's nests. The kind that pirates use to explore the world and have adventures and make new friends.

Pirates aren't sad. Pirates are free and happy. Pirates get to sail all around the world.

Dean wants to be a pirate.

He scrambles to his feet and reaches for the cardboard roll. "Sammy! Let's play!"

It's two weeks after John leaves, and Dean and Sam couldn't be happier. Both boys are in the middle of the bed, the six-year-old on his feet with the baby sitting behind him. They sport matching paper hats folded out of phone book pages, and Dean holds the cardboard roll to his face, one eye pinched shut as he peers through it. If he squints, he can almost pretend the dingy blue bedspread is the ocean.

"Ahoy, matey!" Dean calls to an imaginary vessel far out at sea. "I've got me a traitor on my ship!" He turns around to face Sammy, who is giggling and clapping at his brother's antics. "No, Sammy, don't throw me overboard!" The ironing board that Dean managed to pry out of the linen closet and balance on the end of the bed slips a little when he stumbles onto it. "Don't make me walk the plank!"

Sammy laughs brightly, rocking back and forth on his diapered butt.

"Nooooooo!" Dean cries, falling off of the makeshift plank and onto a small mountain of pillows and sheets. Sammy's laugh escalates into a shriek of mirth, and Dean's smile threatens to split his face in half. "Don't laugh at me!" he shouts in mock-anger. "Or I'll throw _you_ off the plank too!"

Dean clambers back onto the bed and heaves Sammy up into his arms. The baby's legs start kicking gleefully, and Dean is in the process of dropping him over the edge of the ironing board when the door bursts open.

"Daddy!" Dean says, surprised and excited and also worried that he'll get in trouble for making his baby brother walk the plank.

"Get your stuff together," John says automatically, frowning at the mess of pillows and blankets. "What are you doing?"

"We're playing pirates!" Dean hopes, just for a second, that his father will join in. But one look at John's stormy expression tells him that it won't be happening any time soon. Daddy's day must have been bad. Which is sad, because today is Dean's birthday, and he doesn't want his birthday to be sad for anybody, least of all his Daddy.

"Don't be ridiculous. Get your stuff together and get your brother in the car," John snaps. "I'm going to check out."

Heart sinking, Dean nods, and John leaves once again.

Sensing his brother's distress, Sam's smile crumples, his legs still dangling as Dean holds him in his arms.

"Don't worry, Sammy," Dean murmurs, hugging his brother to his chest as tears slip down the baby's face. "I wasn't actually going to make you walk the plank."

He stands there for a few more seconds, clinging to his crying brother, murmuring in his ear. "Don't worry, Sammy, don't worry. Someday we're going to go all over the place, and I'll remember your birthday and you'll remember mine, and I know you won't be a traitor, and I'll never hurt you, Sammy, I'll never hurt you-"

And on and on and on, until it's unclear just who he's trying to comfort: his brother or himself.

It was nice to feel free, Dean thinks. Even if it was only for a few minutes.

**A/N: This was supposed to be sad, and then it was supposed to be happy, and then it turned out sad. As the beginning suggests, this was inspired by the Voltaire quote. I hope you enjoyed it.**


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